The priest feigned surprise at the suggestion. “Would you trust such a noble task to the hands of a common slave?” He shook his head in disappointment. “Such a job should be handled only by the bravest and most esteemed of men. After all, it was warriors who sealed the door. It is only fitting that warriors should be the ones to open it as well.”
Another hard swallow. Zaidu looked around at his men and with a nod, chose the largest three. Exhaling nervously, he then directed his chosen three to position themselves at the seam separating the gate from cliff face. Two of his men reached their hands apprehensively into the crack of the door, while the third and Zaidu himself clutched the gigantic metal ring at the center. On the count of three, each man began pulling with all their might. The metal creaked violently, but the door slid open, revealing a narrow six inch opening. A gust of putrid, stale air spewed from the opening, the stench nearly unbearable.
“Wait!” Sereb-Meloch shouted, nearly beside himself with anticipation. This was taking entirely too long. They were losing precious night. He pointed at the foreign mercenary, Achelous, a tall, burly man with a thick mane of black hair and a full beard. The man’s dark eyes stared back at him with a calm uncharacteristic of the typical rabble among Zaidu’s men. “You. Help them.”
The man, his stern face completely unreadable to the high priest, saluted and moved over to help his brethren-at-arms. Reaching his hand into the small opening, Achelous counted quietly to three and each man once more pulled with all their might. When the door failed to budge another inch, the man stepped back a few feet, put his hands on his waist, and looked up at the door, as if thinking the problem through.
Oh, I like this one, Sereb-Meloch thought. He is not a mindless brute like the rest of his compatriots. This one most definitely is different.
After several seconds of contemplation, the foreigner moved over to the garrison tent, disappeared inside for several seconds, and returned carrying a leather satchel. Rummaging inside, he withdrew a clump of what looked like soft clay coated in a heaping globule of pine resin. He proceeded to divide it into four equal pieces.
“You might want to stand aside,” he said to the other mercenaries. He then waited for them to move safely away before attaching the sticky substance to the four corners of the door. Once done, he looked over to Sereb-Meloch. “Not sure this is going to work. I just made it a few weeks ago, and haven’t had a chance to test it.”
“What will it do?” the high priest asked, more intrigued than ever.
The foreigner grinned and shrugged. “We’ll see in a minute.”
Reaching into his satchel again, Achelous withdrew a long piece of cord and cut it with his knife. After cutting four shorter strands from the string, he tied all four ends to the longer one and then plunged them into all four chunks of clay.
“I don’t think I used too much sulfur, but just in case, everyone should stand back another twenty feet,” he said while spooling the cord out and laying the end on a piece of flint he’d placed on the ground.
Zaidu and the others laughed. “Not your infernal mud again, Achelous. For the last time, I doubt any man—or door for that matter—has much to fear from your ridiculous goo.”
Sereb-Meloch looked from the mercenary captain to the foreigner, then up at the clay now pressed tightly against the gate. “It will not damage the Gate too severely, will it? It is imperative that my prizes not be harmed.”
Achelous gave him a strange look in return. “Doubtful. I placed the charges to blow outward, not in.” He paused, pulling another piece of flint from a pouch on his belt. “Besides, I’m a bit curious to see these prizes of yours myself.” With that, he thrust the flint down onto the cord, watched as it sparked to life, and stepped back. “You all might want to open your mouths and cover your ears.”
The entire cadre of priests and warriors watched tentatively as the strange sparkly fire ate its way down the line. Only Achelous seemed to heed his own warning. After placing two fur cloaks on each side of the prince’s head, effectively covering the boy’s ears, he crouched down to one knee, opened his mouth wide, and wrapped his hands tightly over his own ears. Ten seconds later, the shimmering fire spread out in four different directions and began to burn against the clay.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
Four rapid explosions shook the very foundation of the mountain, creating a wall of smoke that reduced Sereb-Meloch’s view to just a few feet. He was unable to see his men. Unable to see the bound prince. Unable to see the strange foreigner that seemed to have an uncanny ability to harness the power of the sun itself. Worst of all, he was unable to see the famed Gate of Shamash. The thought chilled him to the core.
“Foreigner! What have you done?” he shouted into the smoky haze. His lungs burned with every breath, but that was the least of the high priest’s problems. He suddenly realized that he had not heard the words he’d just uttered from within his own skull. All that he could hear at the moment was the echo of some great bell ringing maddeningly in his ear.
Achelous is some sort of magus, he thought, waving away the smoke from his face. Controlling both light and sound. But what does he want? What is he up to?
His concern evaporated as quickly as the smoke, for as the haze blew away on the frigid winter wind, he saw before him a great gaping hole in the side of the mountain, where only moments before the gate had hung. He’d done it. The mage-warrior had succeeded in opening the doorway to the Realm of Eternal Darkness. And what darkness it was! As Sereb-Meloch gazed into the perfect blackness beneath the mountain walls, his ringing ears were forgotten. He could not help but wonder if they hadn’t opened a portal to the Great Void itself—the primordial nothingness of reality before She had provided the essential ingredients of creation. Apparently, some of his men were pondering the very same thing, for three of them—two priests and a warrior—began carefully shambling toward the open maw.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t go any closer!”
But the same deafening ring must have affected them as it had him. None of them so much as turned to acknowledge his command. They simply inched closer to the darkened entrance. The mercenary, at least, had enough good sense to draw his sword as he approached. Not that it would do him any good against the two creatures lurking within the shadows. But Sereb-Meloch was not concerned with the safety of his men. He simply wanted to avoid any unnecessary confrontation with the goddess’s children.
“I said stop!” he yelled again.
But it was too late. Without warning, a giant, spear-like arm shot out from the dark, skewering the nearest priest in the chest. The multi-jointed arm, coated in black, insect-like armor, lifted its victim off the ground and pulled him back into the void. Before the other two men could even scream, another arm swung out. Its serrated edges sliced through the mercenary’s body from shoulder to groin, cutting him in half. An instant later, the sound of the second priest’s terrified, pain-filled screams began to seep into Sereb-Meloch’s consciousness, just as the creatures’ arms struck out a third time, sending the pathetic man’s broken body hurling through the air and over the edge of the eastern cliff.
At least my hearing is returning, Sereb-Meloch thought, as he began barking orders to his men. “Back away!” he shouted, absently stroking the archaic headdress. Though everyone was too distracted to notice, the strangely-colored band around the headdress seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly blue-green light. “This is why we’ve brought the sacrifice. Move past the altar and watch as the gods emerge once more into the land of mortals!”
Whether his men’s own hearing was returning or not, they did not heed his words. As one, a small group of the mercenaries roared in anger, lifted up their swords and rushed toward the exposed cavern. One by one, the men fell, struck down by two sets of twelve-foot-long, insectoid arms. Arms that in many ways reminded the high priest of some great mantis.
Before he could reflect any further on the creatures, another wave of men rushed into battle. This time, howe
ver, they’d learned from their brethren’s mistakes. The moment that the carapace-covered arms lashed out, each man ducked, rolled and came up again, bringing their swords down against their attackers. Six heavy bronze blades swung down toward the offending arms, only to clatter uselessly against the armored hide.
Enraged, one of the creatures, still enshrouded in the cavern’s blissful darkness, lunged forward, bringing both blade-like arms down on a single soldier and pinning him to the ground. The young man screamed in agony as the beast swept its arms out in opposite directions, ripping him apart.
The mage. Maybe he can bring this situation under control. Where is he? Before Sereb-Meloch could scan the chaos around him to find Achelous, his concentration was interrupted by a shout. Not the ear-splitting shriek of one of the mercenaries being torn to pieces, but rather a cry of outrage. The voice was familiar. Captain Zaidu.
Sereb-Meloch spun toward the distressed cry. Toward the sacrificial altar. His mouth jerked open the moment his mind registered what he was seeing. The foreigner had freed the prince from his bonds and was now in mortal combat with the mercenary captain and three other men.
2
Achelous’s two curved blades flashed around in a swirling arc, clanging against the two weapons of the nearest mercenaries. Within five seconds, the two considerably lesser-skilled warriors lay dead in pools of their own blood. With the other mercenaries and priests occupied by the giant creatures still lashing out from the cavern’s shadows, only Captain Zaidu maintained sense enough to deal with the real threat.
Bringing an ancient horn up to his lips, the captain gave a great blow and garnered his troops’ attention. They turned to stare at the one-on-one battle.
The foreigner, keeping the prince behind him, whirled his swords, fending off Zaidu’s sudden sword thrust.
“Traitor!” the captain spat. “I took you in. Fed you. Gave you purpose. And this is how you repay your commander?”
The foreigner’s only response was to press the attack with a backhanded swing that nearly took Zaidu’s head from his shoulders. Sereb-Meloch knew the move would be Achelous’s mistake. With comprehension suddenly dawning on the captain’s men, nearly twenty of them rushed to the aid of their commander. Five more held back, readying their bows and awaiting a clear shot. Before their comrades reached the fray, a swarm of arrows cut through the air and slammed full force into the foreigner. The bronze-tipped projectiles punctured the man’s leathery skin with ease and burrowed deeply into his arms, chest and neck.
Plucking the darts out with simple jerks of his wrists, Achelous continued his offensive against the captain and his now, fully committed men.
Sereb-Meloch watched in amazement as Achelous’s neck wound spurted out a geyser of blood that stained the pristine snow crimson. A shame, he thought. The man’s intellect and courage would have made valuable assets. Instead, the man would bleed out in minutes. Sooner if the battle continued with the same ferocity.
But despite the extreme loss of blood, Achelous continued to fight with a nearly incomprehensible strength. Of the twenty mercenaries that had joined the fray, thirteen now lay dead or dying in the snow. Two more had suffered extensive, but not life-threatening injuries.
But that was nothing compared to the onslaught the foreigner continued to endure. The high priest’s men hacked at the man, inflicting mortal wound after mortal wound. One swipe sliced cleanly through Achelous’s throat, clear to the spine if Sereb-Meloch wasn’t mistaken, yet still the man fought with the might of the hero-gods of old.
The thought unnerved Sereb-Meloch more than he wanted to admit. Can it be possible? Could it be that the gods, knowing what he intended to do, sent a champion to stop him from awakening the Mother? The very thought was preposterous, but how else could he explain it? A man who could control both light and sound, blasting a giant wound into the side of the mountain? A man who could endure blade and arrow alike without so much as slowing down? It was as if Marduk himself had descended from the heavens to thwart Sereb-Meloch.
Then why had the man—if that is what he truly was—helped to unleash Her children from their subterranean prison? Why had he used his magic to assist in the high priest’s acquisition of the next vital piece of the plan?
A muffled grunt of pain drew Sereb-Meloch from his musings. He looked up to see the prince, secured once more by two more seedy-looking mercenaries. The foreigner was on his knees now, Zaidu’s three-foot-long blade plunged deeply in the man’s chest. Achelous’s eyes widened, confusion and pain reflecting across his dark irises. A stream of blood spewed from his mouth as he heaved for breath.
They had done it. The mercenary captain had finally quelled the traitor’s sedition. A wave of relief cascaded over the high priest. Mortal after all. Not a god. Not a champion. Simply a lone fool who sought to undo everything I have worked for. But that thought unnerved him as well. After all, where there was one, there could be more… How many other traitors were lurking within his ranks? He’d have to be more vigilant. For now, however, he would savor this new victory and watch the warrior-mage die.
As if sensing his master’s unspoken thoughts, Zaidu stepped closer to his fallen foe, looking down into the man’s pain-filled eyes. Without a word, the captain spat in the traitor’s face, drew an ivory-handled dagger from his sash, and swept it across the man’s throat. Whatever blood remaining in the man’s body after the direct blow to his heart, poured freely from the smiling laceration. Satisfied Achelous was no more, Zaidu shoved the dead man to the ground with the palm of his hand and turned to face the high priest. With a glow of satisfaction about him, he gave a slight bow toward Sereb-Meloch, then turned his attention to the two creatures still preying on those stupid enough to get too close to the cavern’s mouth.
The monsters roared from the shadows, yearning for the sacrifice that would draw them from the prison they’d called home for the better part of two millennia. Their chitinous claws lashed out from the shadows, desperately searching for their prey.
“The boy!” Sereb-Meloch shouted. “Get him to the altar now. There can be no more delays!”
Before his men could comply, a great shriek arose from inside the cave, followed immediately by the sounds of thrashing and even more howls of rage and desperation. From the sound of it, the creatures, Namtar and Tiamba, were locked in mortal combat. If Sereb-Meloch didn’t act, they’d tear themselves apart.
Nervous, he turned toward the altar where the mercenaries secured Belshazzar’s bonds once more. Satisfied all was ready, the high priest strode toward the open gates with arms outstretched. The headband glowed even brighter—practically blinding to those who looked directly at it—as he recited the arcane chant, exactly as he’d practiced it for the past eleven months.
“Acheno, le Baranaga! Acheno terana, Namtar eb Tiamba! Thret nasi, belagon Tiamat neastar trumpo! Eb learenok gonno, Belshazzar Erraga!”
Hear me, Great Ones! Hear my words, Namtar and Tiamba! Come forward, O’ Children of Tiamat and feast. Behold the sacrifice, Prince Belshazzar of Babylon!
He smiled when the sounds from inside the cave ceased immediately. The months of studying the ancient language—words not uttered in over two millennia—had paid off. And now, he had gained the great creatures’ attention and hopefully, their cooperation.
Sereb-Meloch stepped back, his eyes never leaving the dark cavern. Something shuffled from within. They’re coming! The high priest stepped past the stone altar and gave a quick glance at the doomed prince. He would have the ultimate revenge against his old nemesis, the boy’s grandfather, and claim his prizes with one swift blow. The joy of that revelation warmed his chilled insides, as he continued backing away from the cave.
A low growl echoed from the shadows, followed immediately by a giant, insect-like leg. Followed by another and another. Soon, a great mass of shiny black armor slunk from the cave’s entrance, shrouded by the cloudy night’s sky. The creature’s form was truly monstrous. Six enormous spindly legs supporting the we
ight of a giant’s torso. The torso was human in nature, but covered from claw to head in a hard-shell carapace. Two more limbs, attached at the creature’s shoulders, folded twice—once upwards and then down, so that the blade-like structures assisted in balancing the creature while walking. Those gruesome features, however, were not what sent a wave of dread down the spines of all present. That honor was left to the creature’s nineteen-foot-long tail, which curved to a point behind its back and dripped with lethal venom.
Girtablilu.
Scorpion Men.
That’s what the legends had called them. Children of the enormous goddess Tiamat, from whose body all of creation had sprung. Feared and revered for ages untold, the Girtablilu were said to be as cunning as they were vicious. But they could also be of assistance to certain brave mortals not afraid to harness their power…as revealed by the tales of Gilgamesh. It was Sereb-Meloch’s hope that he would be counted just as worthy as the immortality-seeking adventurer. All that remained to ensure their loyalty was the awaiting sacrifice.
A sacrifice of royal blood.
Amid gasps, everyone in the high priest’s entourage moved back. Though many had been privy to the object of Sereb-Meloch’s current expedition, few had actually believed the legends to be true. Now, as they watched the second scorpion-creature lumber from the cave, their skepticism disintegrated along with their false bravado.
The scorpion brothers scuttled toward the altar.
It was finally time. The sacrifice would be accepted, and their loyalty would be assured.
“Wow,” came a voice from somewhere behind Sereb-Meloch. “As an old friend of mine would have taken great pleasure in saying, those are some big-ass bugs.” Sereb-Meloch, Zaidu and nearly half the mercenary’s men wheeled around at this new interruption, paralyzed with confusion and fear.
Standing, his sword resting casually on his broad shoulder, the foreigner Achelous looked back at them. The wound on his throat was completely gone; only the drying blood remained. He smiled mischievously. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “What’s it gonna take to kill this guy, right?”
Jack Sigler Continuum 1: Guardian Page 2